The Pleasure of Memory (27 page)

“You believe what you saw,” Chance said as if reading his mind, “You’re just waiting for the courage to admit it.”

Beam pushed off the stool. It was a struggle not to show how much pain that little move cost him. “You can’t bait me,” he said seriously, “You can try, but you’ll just waste your time. I damn well know the difference between truth and madness.”

“Do you?”

Beam crossed over to his bedding where the sword lay nested in the blankets. The stone always seemed to be glowing, no matter the angle or lighting. He knew it was just the torchlight refracting through the crystal, but still...sometimes...

“I’m walking away from the conversation,” Chance said from behind him, “Bless me if I’m not too tired to banter with a fool.”

Beam looked back at him. He wanted to throw some vicious remark his way, but he couldn’t come up with anything suitable. Why was the bastard so goddamned contrary? He was about as aggravating as a rash.

He carefully picked up his folded cotton undershirt and shook it out. As he prepared to slip it on, he wondered why the monk would have bothered folding it. The faded blue fabric was frayed at the wrists and worn clean through at the elbows, and it was only as clean as a fall into a river could leave it. It was just more proof of the man’s persnickety nature.

As he worked to pull it on without bawling from pain, he watched the monk cross to the wardrobe standing against the long wall opposite where the door had been. The old, cave-tarnished hinges groaned as the man pulled the tall doors open. He watched Chance lean into it, watched him dig through the contents until he pulled out a brown leather belt with a worn scabbard.

“It’s a little beat up,” he said as he tossed it to Beam, “But it’s about the right size.”

Beam winced as he caught it. The mangled old scabbard wasn’t much to look at. The leather was scarred and rough, and the end of the sheath had eroded away from time or misuse. As Beam crossed back to the table, he slipped the sword into the scabbard. The blade stuck several inches beyond the tattered bottom. Otherwise, it was a perfect fit.

Chance went into the wardrobe again. This time he threw a metallic wad across the room. It slapped to the stone beyond the carpet and slid the last couple feet to the foot of Beam’s stool.

Beam looked down at the silvery pile. “What’s this?”

“You’ll find it more effective than that leather shirt if we run into trouble.”

Beam bent down to pick it up, grimacing against the protests of his broken ribs. He snagged the metal pile with a hooked finger and eased himself upright again. He held the chain mail shirt out before him. It was old, and a bit corroded, but was also the lightest mail he’d ever held. The rings were so tight, it looked more woven than smashed. And yet, he found it most unappealing.

He considered tossing it back, but his chest argued against such a move. Instead, he let it slip to the ground beside his stool. “I don’t think so,” he said, “I find mail restricting. Besides, it’s a little too Vaemysh for my tastes.”

Chance backed out of the closet and looked over at him. “It’s too Vaemysh for your tastes? Excuse my impertinence, but isn’t that leather shirt you wear of Vaemysh manufacture?”

“Yeah, well, there weren’t a lot of shops where I’ve been. In desperate times, fashion comes second to need. And believe me, I was in need.” He laid the sword and scabbard across the table, and went back over to his clothes.

Chance shrugged. “It's your hide. But it seems odd to me that someone could so thoroughly despise half of his ancestry.”

Holding his leather shirt out before him, Beam considered what approach to donning it would yield him the least pain and embarrassment. It had a narrow collar and a laced slit that ran down to the sternum. He had to pull it over his head to get it on. He was not looking forward to it.

“I’ll tell you again, Brother,” he said as he slipped his arms in first, “Neither my ancestry nor my distaste for it are any of your business.”

Chance shrugged, and closed the wardrobe closet doors. “As you wish, my friend.”

The man’s tone didn’t help Beam’s declining mood. “Don’t let this break your heart,” he snapped back, “But we’re not friends.”

The fire in his chest as he pulled the tunic over his head was his punishment for the crudity of that last remark. Shirt finally on, he stood staring down at the leather britches folded beside his bedding as he waited for his breath to return. He wasn’t sure he could endure much more punishment.

Chance crossed back to the table and began securing the ties on the pack, which was quite full by now. “We've got about a week’s worth of supplies in here, including a few skins of wine. Once the wine’s gone, we’ll just have to settle for any water we find along the way.”

“Along the way? Along the way to where?”

“Along the way to Barcuun.”

Beam looked back at him. “What did you say?”

Chance didn’t look at him. “Is there a problem, Beam?”

“Just hold up there,” Beam said as he crossed to the wall where the door had been the night before, “I don’t know what you’re planning, but I don’t see Barcuun in my future. Our best bet is to sit low, hang out here in the cave for a few days, and rest up.” He leaned back into the stone and began to don his britches. The pain of bending was ridiculous.

“Are you attempting to be funny?” Chance more said than asked.

Britches on, Beam fell back against the stone and closed his eyes as he struggled for air. “Hell, no,” he said with more effort than pleased him, “I’m not joking. That medicine you gave me is working better than anything Sarrigh ever sold me. I think I could stay in here for a week, which, believe me, is a pretty damned impressive claim for me. We go out there now and those bastards’ll be on us like blowflies on a corpse. I expect they’ll be camping outside by nightfall.”

Chance crossed back to the cabinet. “You don’t understand,” he said, “We’re not going out the front.”

Then the man stretched up on his toes and reached over the top of the wardrobe. He seemed to be fumbling for something too far back for Beam to see. A sharp click resounded, and then Chance pulled the closet away from the wall. A deep rush of dank air immediately followed the movement. Behind the cabinet was a narrow archway leading down into a blackened corridor.

Beam walked toward it. “What the devil is this?” he muttered.

“Freedom.”

Beam grabbed a torch from the wall and thrust it into the dark opening. The flame immediately began to dance and flicker. He poked his head through the door. It was a tunnel, and it was about as stark as a mineshaft with rough, chiseled walls and a low, sloping ceiling dripping with cobwebs. He leaned further in. The narrow tunnel drilled steeply downhill for several yards before intersecting a larger corridor ten or twenty feet below them.

He looked back at Chance. “What the hell is this?”

“Our escape.”

Despite the surprising efficacy of the monk’s elixir, Beam still suffered a chill. A tunnel was a tunnel, and no medicine could ever change that. He pulled back into the room and fell back against the wall. “Are you insane?” he said, “What have I said that led you to think I’d ever willingly go into a place like that?”

Chance took the torch from him and mounted it back in its sconce above Beam’s shoulder. “You think I like it?” he said as he led Beam back to the table, “I'm in the same disagreeable predicament you are. I’d much rather march out into the sunlight, but it’s not like we have options.”

Beam faked a laugh at that. “Are you kidding?” he said, louder than he’d intended, “There’re always options. A tunnel can’t be our last best hope.”

The mage lifted the pack and heaved it up onto his back. Beam noticed thick rolls of blankets tucked tightly into wide pockets, two on each side of the pack. As the man secured the straps over his shoulders, he looked at Beam and said, “Well, I expect you’re correct in that assertion. Staying here is definitely a choice. By that estimation, so is slitting our own throats.”

Beam glanced back at the darkness lying beyond the open door. He felt sick to his stomach. What was it with all the caves lately?

Chance stuffed a few small vials into a wide flap pocket on the right leg of his leather britches. “I don’t have time to argue,” he said as he worked, “And bless me if I surely don’t have the strength.”

“A cave with a door is one thing,” Beam said to him, “But a tunnel whose end could be miles away? How the hell do I know where we’ll end up?”

“All right, Beam, let me ease your fears.”

“They’re not fears! They’re tactical considerations.” Gods, the man was torture on legs.

“This cave and the tunnels beneath it were built centuries ago by the Baeldons as a winter highway through the mountains,” Chance said, “Winters at that time were wretched and long. After that, the tunnels were utilized as a means of transporting troops and supplies during the Fifty Year War. They originate in the Iron Mountains and extend as far south as Dragor’s Field, crossing through Na te’Yed on their way. There’s an exit to the surface at regular intervals, so you’ll never be more than a day’s march to sunlight in either direction. And, best of all, the Vaemyn can’t enter them because of the same natural confinement dread you inherited from them.”

Beam crossed his arms. “I’m familiar with the war tunnels,” he said, “And if memory serves, those exits are thirty miles apart.”

“I see. I presume you’re not convinced.”

“I most assuredly am not.”

“Very well, then. It’s your skin.” Chance took his staff and crossed to the new door. Before he passed through it, he turned and looked back at Beam. “I imagine your plan is to sit here until the storm blows over, and then possibly escape through the front door. Have I summarized that properly?”

“Yes, that’s just about exactly right, Brother. The savages are simple. They bore easily. Given a day’s tedium, they’ll disperse. Or they’ll see a delicious deer prancing across the plains and be gone.”

The Vaemyn are vegetarians,” Chance said matter-of-factly.

“Doesn’t matter the cause. They'll give up on the trail soon enough, and then I'll slip out unseen. I’ve done it a thousand times.”

“It must be a wonderful gift to so fully understand one's adversaries.”

“Well, you learn a lot when you've been a fugitive as long as I have. You learn or you become extinct.”

“I see,” Chance said too seriously, “Looks like there’s no point in arguing it. Your mind is clearly set.”

“You finally get it.”

“Of course, there’s one other thing I should tell you before I go.”

Beam gestured in mock anticipation. “Of course. I value your advice.”

“I wouldn't waste your time chiseling through the wall when you do decide to leave. The Vaemyn will blast their way through the rock by tomorrow morning. Perhaps even sooner. I imagine they can be quite persistent when driven by a wyrlaerd.”

“Wyrlaerd? Did you forget, my friend? I killed your wyrlaerd with my cattle blade.”

“No, you killed one of them,” Chance said.

The words landed like a slap. Beam looked over at the wall where the front door had been. Then he looked back at Chance. “What in the bloody hell are you trying to say?”

“The Vaemyn who tracked us to the cave last night are almost certainly waiting for—”

“What do you mean they tracked us to the cave?”

“The Vaemyn are camped outside the cave as we speak. There are over twenty of them. I told you that as you woke up.”

Beam stood up. “You didn’t tell me anything like that!”

“No?” Chance frowned and tapped his brow with a long finger. “Hmph. I must be getting old. How could I have forgotten to mention something as important as that? Well, no matter. The fact is they've been waiting in siege since well before dawn.”

Beam threw a laugh at that. “Now you’re just trying to confuse me, aren’t you? You’re trying to deceive me into going with you. You want to tow me along on your magical journey because you think I’ll protect you. Well, I'm not quite that stupid.”

“No, apparently not. I suspect I just can't fool a fool, can I?”

“No, you most definitely cannot,” Beam said, grinning. Yet, even as he replied, he wondered if he’d just been insulted.

Chance chuckled and shook his head. “Very well,” he said, still smiling, “But you should know this, Beam. Once they breech that wall, and make no mistake about it, they will eventually breech it, this tunnel’s going to look like the sweetest walk you ever took.”

“Is that right?”

Chance nodded once, saying, “By my estimation, yes.”

“Well, damn you and damn your conniving ways,” Beam said, “My answer’s unchanged. I’ll wait it out, well-armed and eager for the battle.” He slapped the sword lying across the table.

Chance shrugged. “Very well, then. I can only wish you luck. However, know this. Once I depart this room, that door will seal behind me. I mean to say, I’ll use my caeyl to seal it permanently, much like the entrance before the barb cedars. Once I do, you'll be alone with the Vaemyn. Alone with your fate.”

Beam studied the man. In the few seconds of their locked gaze, he was convinced Chance wouldn’t leave him here alone, that he was simply testing his will, that in a few minutes they’d be sharing more wine and laughing about the misunderstanding.